


Nuclear Attraction

by ChequeRoot



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Friendship, Loss, Love, M/M, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChequeRoot/pseuds/ChequeRoot
Summary: Before Waylon Smithers Jr. ever worked for C. M. Burns, his father was the tycoon's friend and trusted companion in more ways than one. This story takes us through the life of Waylon Smithers Sr, from the time he first started working for Burns, to the final days of his life. Learn what really happened in those years they worked together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Standard Disclaimer.** I do not own the Simpsons, C. M. Burns, Waylon Smithers Sr, or any other characters from the Simpsons Universe This is a non-profit piece of fan fiction.

_**Author's Notes:** _

_This might best be described as a meta-fanfiction. I took inspiration not only from the Simpsons themselves, but from the bits and pieces other artists and authors have put together regarding the relationship between Burns and Waylon Sr. I've intended this story as an homage to all the other fans of BurnSmithersSr pairing. If you see something that might be slightly familiar, it is deliberate, and meant with the greatest of respect. To all you other BurnsSmithersSr shippers out there, this one's for you!_

_With that out of the way, please sit back, relax, and enjoy this first installment of the acclaimed "Nuclear Tetralogy."_

_~ Muse_

* * *

**NOW**

A tidy maroon station wagon pulled into the driveway of a neat little house in the new suburb of West Springfield in mid-November. It was evening, just about dinner time.

The driver stepped out, a man in a grey suit, white shirt, and red tie. He was in his early middle age, though he'd experienced significant balding for his age. His mouse-grey hair was lighter at the temples, thickest in the back. A pair of round-rimmed glasses framed his expressive eyes. His mouth was drawn tight in thought. Absent-mindedly he rubbed a hand over his lips and moustache.

He took his leather briefcase from the back seat before locking the car, and headed inside.

Dinner used to be waiting on the table, but these nights the kitchen was cold. No matter, he thought, setting his briefcase on the table and putting a can of soup to heat. His wife was probably in the bedroom with the new baby. She hadn't been feeling well as of late. Baby blues, perhaps. The man was accustomed to making his own meals.

He walked quietly towards the bedroom calling, "Roberta?"

He found his wife, curled up under the covers of their bed. The baby was dreaming peacefully in his bassinet next to her. Waylon bent over, and kissed Roberta's cheek, before checking on the little boy. Waylon Jr. was sleeping, a tiny fist curled up at his mouth, snoring softly. His father smiled, gently stroking the baby's check with the back of his finger. Everyone said how much the baby looked like him, even his wife.

Waylon Sr. smiled as he took off his loafers and jacket. He had a beautiful family. A strong, healthy baby boy, and a wife who was his best friend. The only regret he had in his life was of the private, personal sort. He tried to keep that from affecting his family. Occasionally Roberta would remark on how distant he seemed towards her.

_I know you love me_ , she'd admit, hands at her sides, _but sometimes it seems like there's something you're not telling me._

In those moments, Waylon Sr. would sweep her up in his arms, arms around her waist, and plant a tender kiss on her cheek. _Something I'm not telling you?_ he'd coo. _Why yes, I haven't told you how much I love you yet today_ ; and he'd kiss her again. She'd laugh, pretend to struggle, and the moment would pass. Or mostly pass. As of late, there was a lingering flicker of doubt in her eyes.

Initially, Waylon Sr. chalked it up to simply fatigue from new motherhood. His son's birth had been uneventful, but Roberta seemed to be struggling afterwards. The baby was the proverbial "happy baby" who watched their faces with delight, and hardly cried except when he needed something.

The other week, Waylon had sat down with Roberta, and encouraged her to talk to her doctor. _Perhaps he can give you something to pick you up a bit_ , he pushed gently. He wasn't sure if she'd taken his advice. These past few weeks had become increasingly difficult. Waylon found himself coming home from work, then tending to his wife and his son in equal parts.

_You've got to take care of yourself, Roberta_ , he chided. _You need to be strong for the baby_.

Roberta had responded with uncharacteristic harshness. _I'm taking care of this baby just fine, Waylon Joseph_ , she snapped. You worry about yourself. With that, she swept out of the room, Waylon Jr. in her arms, and stormed out to the back porch. Waylon Sr. had put his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. Life, it seemed, always found a way to become complicated. Even when one did everything right.

These memories played through his mind.

He stroked his wife's hair. "There's tomato soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. Please eat something tonight." She made a mummer of a response. "I'll feed Waylon," he added, giving her another kiss. He scooped the baby out of the bassinet, and headed back to the kitchen.

* * *

 

**NOW**

"Waylon! Waylon Smithers, my old chap, I dare say there's a loss of spring in your step today," remarked Monty chipperly.

"I've had a lot on my mind," replied Waylon pensively, falling into step with his business partner.

"Oh ho, well I'm sure of that! How is the missus doing, and the child? Any news?"

Waylon smiled despite himself. "Well, they're day older each than they were yesterday when you asked," he replied smirking.

Monty tilted his head back and laughed. "Oh there's that jaunty reply I was waiting for." Then he became serious again. "But tell me, Smithers, is anything amiss?"

"I'm not sure, Monty. I'm truly not sure."

The two men walked in silence through the main corridor of the newly finished nuclear generation station. "I daresay, we'll have this place up and running at capacity within a few short weeks," Monty said, steepling his fingers. "I loved those additions you made: the office complex, the guard house," he interlaced his fingers. "They make for a right proper plant. Have you finished going through the applications?"

Waylon held the door to their shared office open. "I've gotten it narrowed down."

The office was a modest space, still in the old complex. They'd be moving into the new office building when the plant came online in a few months. The room had several filing cabinets and boxes, in the preparation for the move. A few utilitarian windows ran along the back wall, affording light and fresh air when the weather permitted. In the far corner, they'd moved in a water cooler, coffee pot, and later had a small refrigerator brought up as well. There was a table along the adjacent wall, covered in final drafts and plans.

When they'd first moved in, Monty and Waylon had pushed two desks together in the center, facing each other. This allowed them to pass paperwork back and forth, without the hassle of getting up. Efficiency in all things.

"Here's a few I've narrowed down. I'd say they're executive material." Waylon reached a stack of papers over to Monty's side.

Monty reached for them, and their fingertips brushed over one another's. Monty looked up, met Waylon's eyes. He felt his cheeks grow warm. He blushed, and looked away as he accepted the documents. This happened sometimes. Same thing with their shared foot space under the desks. Sometimes it was Monty who blushed and looked down, other times it was Waylon who shyly averted his gaze. It wasn't something either man talked about, lest discussing it make things too real.

Monty coughed and leafed through the papers. "Well, they seem smarter than the average mule, and this fellow here sounds twice as hardworking. Let's make a go of him. You said you called all their references?"

"Spoke to each one personally, Monty."

"Excellent. Well, if he's good enough for you, he's definitely good enough for me." Monty passed the paper back, and Waylon added it to his call-back pile.

* * *

 

**THEN**

"Professor Burns," a breathless voice called out.

Montgomery Burns heard footsteps rapidly approaching. The frantic patter of loafers on marble. He sighed inwardly. He hoped it wasn't one of his students trying to protest a grade. He wasn't in the mood for such things. Burns had been subjected to a very bad week. He ran a hand through his mid-length and rapidly greying hair. If he weren't completely grey by the end of this year it would be a no small miracle.

He muttered a brief prayer of sorts. _Don't let me kill this poor bastard in front of the faculty._

Burns turned halfway, looking over his shoulder, and felt a slight wash of relief. It was his old student, and former laboratory coordinator: Waylon Smithers. Whatever Smithers had, at least it wouldn't be petty concerns. The man had graduated last semester, and was already teaching a few courses himself.

"Oh, what is it now?" Burns asked with only mild acidity. "I'm late. Walk with me."

Smithers fell into step beside Burns, trying to smooth his thinning hair with one hand.

"I've been thinking," he began, readjusting the satchel slung over his shoulder, "we could still make use of some of our records from the lab. A tragedy that we lost so much research in the attack.

"'We?'"

"Well, you, Professor," Smithers corrected himself, feeling his teeth bite down at the end of each word. His contribution had been substantial, if underappreciated.

Burns took no notice of his former student's ire. "Indeed, _me_. Pray continue."

"Well, in my spare time I'd been doing a few side studies in radiobiology. I've also been accepted as a graduate teaching assistant for the Nuclear Engineering and Architecture program. The radiobiology was just a hobby, trying to see if I couldn't improve on some of your specimens." He paused to switch the satchel to his other shoulder.

Burns narrowed his eyes. "You were tampering my precious germs? Blasting their harmless little bodies with your malevolent radiation, eh?"

"Well, yes and no," replied Smithers. The man straightened his back and looked Burns straight in the eye.

"Professor Burns," he began, "Nuclear engineering is only going up."

"Your point?"

"Sir, in your lectures you talked about your great grandfather's atom smashing plant, splitting them by hand with a hammer and anvil-"

Burns held up a hand to halt the younger man. "We'll have to continue this later, _Mister_ Smithers. As you can see, we've arrived at my _full_ lecture hall, and I am already late." With that, Burns turned and dismissed the younger man.

* * *

 

**THEN**

In his lecture, Burns mind wandered. Even as he presented his lecture on biochemical engineering, the idea of atomic potential had lodged in his mind. Nuclear energy. Perhaps the future lay in atoms, not bugs. Burns was never a man to stay in one mood for long, be it wrath or joy.

He concluded his lecture, and assigned a surprise essay to celebrate his good mood. Back in his office, Burns pulled out the files and few samples that had survived the "antibiotic bomb" some terrorist sect had detonated in his laboratory.

In a glass incubator, several petri dishes were stacked in isolation cubes. He took one out and examined it thoughtfully. On his desk a newspaper was open to an article about the growing commercial nuclear energy field.

Burns held the petri dish in his hand, leering over the fuzzy agar gel. "Ah, poor, little bacteria, the strong few who survived in the face of adversity." He waved a finger at the dish. "Well, my small friends, nothing lasts forever. I have a new plan now."

He picked up his phone and dialed a number he knew quite well: "Screaming Monkey Medical Research Center? Yes, I have an offer I don't think you can refuse."

Under the cover of darkness, the last of his precious little bacteria and home-grown viruses were quietly boxed up and transferred in a cash deal… for a great deal of cash. Montgomery Burns believed one should never look back. As his grandfather had taught him, family, religion and friendship were three demons one had to slay in order to be successful in business.

Attachment to anything, even something as trifling as a microbe, could muddy up everything.


	2. Chapter 2

  
**THEN**

Montgomery Burns sat alone in the library at his manor, burning the midnight oil (literally; it was whale oil). He poured over the diagrams and schematics of various nuclear systems. He drummed his slender fingers on the table, and ran a hand through his mostly grey hair. How did that happen? It seemed to be changing from brown to silver in a matter of weeks after the lab incident. Stress, perhaps. At least he didn't have a receding hairline like Smithers. Going bald? What a curse that would be!

He had several ideas for the contraction project, but he needed a second set of eyes before he even considered anything further. There were several tracts of land along the western side of the Springfield River, all of them available.

Land deals and business transactions were old hat to Burns. He assembled his team, complete with surveyors, and sent them to examine the potential sites in detail.

Under his left hand was a long list of regulations and land requirements. It made his head spin. Just before dawn, he rose from his desk, shrugged on his pea coat, and went outside.

He walked slowly in the gardens behind his mansion. His groundskeepers maintained a wide variety of flowering trees and seasonal blooms. The sun was just starting to crest in the east, casting golden spears across the manicured landscape.

He walked silently, lost in thought. Another sleepless night. Fortunately, at his age, sleep could still be considered a luxury. Money and progress never slept. If Burns had his choice, neither would he. Sleep got in his way.

Beyond the veranda, hedge maze, and formal gardens the remainder of his estate alternated between manicured lawns, fields, and old forest. The gardeners had been busy last fall. Apparently one of the east lawns had been saturated with daffodil bulbs. The yellow, trumpet-like flowers rising up were a surprise to him. _I hope they don't expect me to pay them extra_ , he mused as he regarded the scene. Admittedly, Burns rarely saw most of his staff, and was not always aware of the finer details, especially trivial ones such as plantings. He'd given his servants strict orders to be neither seen, nor heard. The only person Burns cared to have any contact with was his head steward, and loyal majordomo, Johan. He gave orders to Johan, and everything from cooking, to cleaning, to tending his kennels was managed.

Burns liked the feeling of being alone. He relished in the solitude away from the inane prattle of the peasants. For most of his ventures, Burns kept everyone at the end of a long, and preferably pointed stick.

He did however, acknowledge the value of the common man as a resource. A necessary cog in the great machine of progress.

That was one of the biggest hitches with his nuclear plans, he had to admit. He needed a second set of eyes, someone with familiarity in the field, to go over his figures and prints.

That Smithers fellow, he could be just the tool Burns needed to hammer his plans into reality. The lad did have his academic background in nuclear rigmarole.

These days, the government was so uppity. After the war they wanted to crush the business man. Gone were the days of maverick, free-market construction projects. These days, everything had to be so precise, with all these redundant "safety" features – expensive features, he scoffed. He much preferred the good old shops of old, where it was common sense, not so-called "safety features" that kept workers alive.

He rolled his eyes at the thought. _If they're too imbecilic to stay alive on their jobs, I'd consider that natural selection. I'd be doing humanity a service._

The government, unfortunately, no longer saw it that way.

Burns concluded his early walk through the daffodil field. A bite of toast, some coffee, and he'd be sharp as a tack for his morning students. _The youth these days_ , he thought, curling his lip slightly, _lazy sheep, the lot of them! They miss the best part of the day slumbering mindlessly._

Well, he'd have to suffer them; and he'd make sure they suffered because of him. It almost didn't matter now. By his choice, his days teaching as Springfield University were down to single digits.

* * *

 

**THEN**

Professor Burns stormed into the tiny closet Smithers called an office. "You there, Smithers!" he snapped, pointing a long finger at the younger man.

Smithers leapt up with a start, overturning his chair, and knocking a half-full cup of coffee off his desk. In one fluid motion, he snatched the tests he'd been grading out of danger, and caught the coffee mug in his other hand. He thrust the toe of his left foot under the rung of his chair to keep it from crashing to the ground. The coffee sloshed perilously close to the rim, then settled.

Papers in one hand, coffee in the other, and balanced on one foot, Smithers stared levelly at Burns. "Ah, so what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Professor," he asked tersely.

Burns appeared completely nonplussed. He looked around for a place to sit. Finding none, he sat down on Smithers' recently cleared desk.

Smithers sighed inwardly. He straightened the chair, put his papers upon it, and stood there, mug held in both hands.

"I've a proposition for you, Smithers."

Smithers looked levelly at Burns, trying to guess where this was going. Smithers had spent enough time working in Professor Burns' lab as an undergraduate. A proposition could be anything from a sterling recommendation to scrubbing petri dishes. When he'd been a lowly student trying to earn some pocket change from his work study program, he would eagerly take on such assignments. Now as a teaching fellow at Springfield University, he was much less interested in what the capricious man sitting on his desk might have to offer.

Burns steepled his fingers and crossed his legs at the ankles. He rocked back and forth, eyeing Smithers with anticipation. "Come now, man. Say yes!"

"Yes to what?" Smithers asked cautiously, looking for a place to set his mug.

"To my proposition, of course!" exclaimed Burns, throwing his arms wide. His fingertips almost touched the walls of the miniature room.

Smithers bent down, set the cup of cold coffee under his desk and straightened up. "Well, Professor, you've yet to tell me what your proposition is exactly." He folded his arms across his chest. Lord, this man could be irritating at times. At least now, Smithers reasoned, his future at the university no longer depended on any grades from Burns.

"Ask me about my 'atom mill!'" Burns prodded. "Last week? Two weeks ago? Was it a month? Bah, regardless, you started to say something about the future of nuclear energy. Alas, I had to regretfully part company with you-"

_Hmph, I remember something slightly different,_ Smithers thought silently.

"-But now I have the time to listen to whatever you have to say. So," Burns prompted, reclasping his fingers and leaning closer to Smithers, "ask me. Say 'Professor Burns, what is your proposition? Tell me about your atom mill.'"

Smithers took a deep breath and considered his choices. The best chance of him actually getting his desk back was in hearing Burns out. He also felt like if he heard the phrase 'atom mill' used one more time, he would probably lose his patience. Smithers' father had always taught him and his brothers a simple rule in life and business. _Play the game, boys_ , he heard his father's voice in his head. Sometimes you just have to play the game. He'd go along with Burns for now.

Arms still folded across his chest, Smithers looked down at the man perched on his desk. Burns was grinning like some sort of elven cheshire cat. "So, Professor Burns, what is your proposition? Please tell me more about your… nuclear power station." He tried to keep his voice from sounding too heavily laced with sarcasm.

He must've succeeded. Or, if Burns noticed, he ignored it.

"How wonderful of you to ask, Mister Smithers!" Burns exclaimed theatrically. "I have been thinking that nuclear engineering appears to be on the upswing!"

_Do tell_ , thought Smithers in irritation, but he held his tongue.

"I've decided to stay true to the Burns heritage! Cutting edge technology has always been at the forefront of our empire! Using the latest and greatest comes naturally to us. Harnessing the power of the atom! I've decided to invest in this new-fangled electricity spewing-"

("Ngh, Professor, please don't say 'atom mill' again," Smithers groaned under his breath.)

"-Thermonuclear generating station," Burns finished. "Yes, a nuclear power plant, right here in Springfield. It will be splendid. Safe, clean, moderately expensive energy for all." Burns leaned even closer, prompting Smithers to take a step back. "And here's where you come in. Ooh, there'll be a tidy incentive for you, good man, if you say yes."

Smithers waited, keeping his hands tucked under his arms.

"I need someone to help me design and run such a thing! You've got your degree in Nuclear Engineering and Architecture. Now, really, how many opportunities are you going to have to use that in the real world? Why, it's practically a degree that screams 'I shall teach forever, because there is no other use for my skills' and, well, we wouldn't want that; would we?"

"Ah yes," said Smithers, deadpan. "That was exactly what I was thinking when I graduated."

"What else could you possibly do with it?"

"Well, I was hoping to get a government job. Perhaps contracted architect or inspector."

"Bah," Burns twirled a hand. "There's no money in government work! The real money's in the private sector. I am a veteran, remember? I would know. Now," he continued, "I've got several sites selected, but I need your eyes and brain to make it happen."

Smithers uncrossed his arms, and ran a hand over his face. "So you're saying you want me to quit my teaching job, and design your nuclear plant?"

"Exactly," nodded Burns enthusiastically. "I will make it well worth your while."

Smithers suddenly felt the need to sit down. Everything seemed to be happening too quickly. He lifted the papers off his chair and collapsed into it. Professor Burns was the richest man in Springfield, if not the entire state.

A job with Burns could provide young Smithers with the means to get himself well-established in the nuclear industry. Not to mention, designing and overseeing the construction of a nuclear generating station would jump his potential career forward by years, if not decades. Teaching was a way to pay some of his bills, but it wasn't something he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

Burns pulled an envelope out from within his jacket.

"All you have to do is sign this," he smiled toothily, handing the envelope over to Smithers.

Waylon Smithers took the letter and opened it. Inside was an already drawn up employment contract, stating terms and benefits. When his eyes reached the line about salary, his jaw nearly hit the floor. Smithers was ever so glad he was sitting down.

Burns pulled out a fountain pen.

"Sign it now, and you'll be set for life. But do it quickly, because if it's not you, I will find someone else."

"Can I have some time to think this over," Smithers asked.

Burns' smile vanished. "No." He replied, his tone dropping from warm, to sub-zero. "You will either sign this now and quit your job, or you'll be stuck forever teaching these boorish, slothful and licentious youths." Burns stood up, steepled his fingers, and glared eye to eye with Smithers.

"You wouldn't want that now, would you, Smithers."

It really wasn't a question.

_Oh, what would my father think of this game?_ Smithers thought balefully. The offer, however, was too good to refuse. He met Burns' eyes straight on. "You have yourself an architect, Mister Burns," he said solemnly; then he signed his old life away.


	3. Chapter 3

**NOW**

"Tell me something, Waylon," Monty began out of the blue, "how are things with your wife lately?"

The two men had decided to winter walk down to the shore of the Springfield River, just downhill of the power plant. Though cold, the snow had been late in coming that year. Monty wore his old black pea coat. Waylon had gone with a down parka. Under the shadow of the recently completed cooling towers, they paused to take in the still view.

Waylon shook his head. "I finally convinced her to see the doctor." He put his hands in his pockets and looked across the river. "He declared that she has a nervous condition, and prescribed electroshock therapy at the hospital. She's going to start treatment next week. Depending on how the first week goes, they might let her stay home, or they might be keeping her." Waylon pursed his lips. "I don't know what I can do…"

Monty listened quietly.

"You know, before Waylon was born, I saw her reading a book, Every Woman's Standard Medical Guide. There's a chapter on nerves. It says the arrival of a new baby may be a signal for the beginnings of nervous tension in the sensitive, anxious woman." Waylon continued to stare across the river. "Roberta was never sensitive or anxious. Not that I'd call it." Maybe this is all because of me, Waylon thought pensively.

He lapsed into silence.

Monty stepped in and put an arm around Waylon's shoulder. "Come now, man. Perhaps the treatment will work wonders, and she'll be back; fit as a fiddle in no time?"

"And maybe she'll be institutionalized forever," Waylon muttered softly. He closed his eyes and tilted his head in Monty's direction.

Monty sighed and leaned in towards his long-time partner.

Their foreheads met, touching gently.

In the distance, against the grey sky, a crow cawed once.

 _The omen of change_ , Waylon thought heavily, _messenger of death_.

Head to head with Monty, he took a deep breath, and tried to regain his composure.

"Now see here, my man," Monty began softly, "If there's anything I can do for you and your family, believe me I will. You name it, and it will be done." Monty took a step back, one arm still on Waylon's shoulder. He grasped Waylon's other shoulder and turned to face him straight on.

"Look at me," Monty ordered, not unkindly.

Waylon raised his eyes.

"You're a good man, Waylon Smithers," Monty began slowly. The intensity in his blue eyes was almost overwhelming. "I promise you, I will do everything in my power to take care of you and those you love. No harm will ever come to you so long as I am here."

Waylon dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. "You mean that, Monty?"

Montgomery Burns tightened his grip on Waylon's shoulders. "Always."

* * *

 

**THEN**

"You want a moat around it?"

"Of course I want a moat," Burns was fairly yelling now. "Dash it, man! How am I supposed to keep the riff-raff out without some sort of barrier?"

Smithers tapped his pen on the drawing table in mild irritation. "Why don't we go with a nice chainlink fence. Chainlink's all the rage. Very modern." He didn't bother erasing the large blue circle Burns had just drawn on his plans. Smithers would just redo them later. It was easier to let Burns have his way than it was to keep trying to correct the tycoon's "improvements."

"A fence? Are you daft? How on earth will a drawbridge work with a _fence!?_ "

Smithers smiled patronizingly.

"We could have a guard house instead. With gates to control who goes in and out."

Burns' face split into a grin. "With turrets and machine guns?"

Smithers glanced at the prints. _Machine guns? Probably not._ "I was thinking more along the lines of tire spikes, and barbed-wire," he replied, straight-faced as ever.

Burns relented. "Oh, very well. That will have to do." He glanced down at the print. "But we'd still have the attack dogs, right?" he asked hopefully.

Now it was Smithers' turn to grin. "Absolutely! I'm thinking something like Doberman pinchers. Lean, fast, and ill-tempered." He gave Burns a wicked smile.

"Ah, I knew there was something I liked about you, Smithers!" Burns crowed. "I know a fabulous kennel in Germany: Zwinger vom Beisen Gesichtsausdruck!"

Smithers paused, translating in his head. "Does that mean 'Kennel vom Bitey-Face'," he asked tentatively.

"Ah, close enough," replied Burns. "I'll have Johan contact them first thing in their morning." Burns rubbed his hands together in delight. "Oh, Smithers, this will be the best atom- er, nuclear power plant, yet!"

* * *

 

**THEN**

Burns had invited Smithers to join him for dinner; and tried to hide his disappointment when the man declined.

Smithers explained he had promised his fiancée a nice evening at Le Mason Expensive downtown. _I didn't even know he was engaged_ , Burns thought reflectively, as he sat alone at the head of his stately dinner table. Surprise, surprise.

What left Burns even more flabbergasted was the fact he wasn't entirely happy to hear that. Somehow, he liked the idea of Smithers being unattached. Single men, in Burns' opinion, made much better employees. They didn't get distracted with the trappings of family and all that bullroar. They time could be utterly devoted to the task at hands.

 _Like me_ , Burns thought. His time was all his. No one holding him back, or dragging him down. No attachments. A solitary apex financial predator in the wilds of a capitalist economy! Exactly like nature intended.

Speaking of nature…

"Johan," Burns bellowed, "Get in here!"

The tall man immediately appeared from the kitchen, dressed as always in his black suit, but wearing a white chef's apron. He moved silently over to his master's side. "There you are, what took you so long? Ah, never mind it. Johan, when will the new hunden be arriving?"

"Zey will be here within the fortnight, Herr Burns," Johan replied is his deceptively soft Germanic voice.

"Ah, wonderful. Well that gives me time for one last fox hunt with the old pack before we… do whatever it is with dogs when we don't need them anymore."

Johan nodded once, silently.

"Have the kennel master get them prepared, get my hunting vestments out, and ready my blunderbuss. I'm feeling lucky tonight," he quipped. _And I have nothing else to do with my time tonight_ , he thought sourly, thinking of the guest he didn't have.

Johan nodded once, again, and left as silently as he arrived. After he was gone, Burns allowed himself a small shudder. Johan might be phenomenal at what he did, but at times he could be a tad eerie.

Leaving the remains of his dinner on the table for the servants to clean up, Burns rose and pushed his chair back. He strode purposefully from the dining hall, tossing his napkin carelessly over his shoulder as he left.

Upstairs in his bedchamber, his fox hunting attire had been laid out on his bed. Cream riding pants, black boots, white undershirt and red jacket, complete with black cap. His riding crop lay beside the clothes. Burns dressed hastily, donning a pair of house slippers for the moment. He'd put on his hunting boots when he got to the kennel.

He slapped the riding crop across his palm twice, and smiled; both the sound and the sensation appealed to his edgier side. Ah, the delightful form and function of a well-made leather crop! Such things, he hoped, would never go out of style.

His horse was already waiting at the stables. His horseman helped him put on the high black riding boots, then assisted him into the saddle. The horseman handed Burns his archaic firearm, which Burns slung into a holster across his back.

Early spring never allowed for a light evening. Already the sun was dipping behind the western edge of his estate, casting lengthening shadows across the lawns. Fortunately though, the full moon would be rising shortly.

An evening fox hunt. A more challenging affair, though perhaps not traditional. It always got the old blood flowing. He sat straight in the saddle, reins and crop gathered in his hands. "Cast the hounds!" he exclaimed, throwing a hand to the forest.

With that, the foxhounds were released. Almost immediately, they caught scent, and baying, took off. Burns spurred his horse forward, and gave chase.

 

* * *

 

**THEN**

Like so many of his hunts, he returned without a trophy. The fox darted quickly into its burrow, leaving not so much as a single hair exposed. Burns holstered his firearm back over his shoulder, clucked his tongue, and turned the horse back. He whistled shrilly, calling the hounds off their quarry.

His blood was still pounding in his ears from the spirited chase moments before, but now he felt oddly serene. Even though his veins still throbbed, there was a sense of peace, an almost sleepy calm that always seemed to come after such an exertive act.

Burns guided his horse leisurely through the overgrowth. The world had taken on a silver cast to it under the rapidly rising moon. The only sounds were the thudding of his horse's hooves, and the steamy pantings of the fox hounds as they trotted at his feet.

He let his mind wander as he rode. A pity Smithers was indisposed for the evening. Burns would've enjoyed companionship tonight. He thought of Smithers' face, the hazel eyes that seemed always on the verge of making some delightfully sharp and mirthful retort. The way Smithers' lips would purse and tighten when he held back a smile, or a laugh.

 _Good thing he does too,_ Burns thought, imagining those lips. _No one would dare laugh at me!_ He snorted and looked up at the moon. What would you do if he did, a tiny voice in his head asked.

 _Oh, I'd find a way to shut his irreverent, impish mouth,_ Burns thought back at himself, giving his horse's sides a slight tap with the spurs.

The mare obediently picked up her pace. The hounds, winded but enthusiastic, matched speed.

Images of Waylon Smithers smiling in a warm and teasing way swam though his mind. _Damnable, frolicsome youth, with his fake self-effacement,_ Burns thought darkly. _He knows wit and well what he's playing at_.

The little voice inside his head continued its small, but insistent nudging. He's not afraid of you, Monty, it admonished him.

Burns clenched his teeth. "Then I'll _give_ him a reason," he snarled softly into the night air. His horse flicked her ears back at the unexpected, hostile tone from her previously mute rider.

The small voice gave a peal of laughter.

I don't think you could! The voice chided gaily. All you'd do is encourage him!


	4. Chapter 4

**THEN**

"Professor Burns, I mean Mister Burns will be submitting the first draft of the plant to the Atomic Energy Commission this week," Smithers said enthusiastically, reaching for another roll.

Across the table, his fiancée Roberta Latante smiled, but her face hinted at some reservation. "What about all those atomic weapons?" she asked.

Smithers raised an eyebrow. "What atomic weapons?"

"The ones that could be made right here at the Springfield plant?"

Smithers smiled and reached for her well-manicured hands. "Don't worry about that, my love. There is a world of difference between nuclear weapons, and nuclear energy." He ran his thumbs over her fingers, pausing when he hit the engagement ring on her left hand. They both looked down at the ring for a moment, a tiny square diamond set in a dainty gold band. It was the best he could afford after he graduated university.

"This is a project for the people," Smithers said, still watching her hands. "Mister Burns is paying me more than I ever dreamed I'd be making. We'll be able to have a nice house, with a front and a back yard." He paused, then looked up. "I'll be able to buy you a real ring," he added apologetically.

Roberta lifted her hands out of his, and played with her ring absent-mindedly. She regarded her fiancé thoughtfully, her dark eyes and heart-shaped face reminding him of a delicate owl. "I don't care about getting a bigger ring. It's the thought that matters to me." She paused. "The idea of you working around something so dangerous worries me, Waylon."

Smithers smiled reassuringly. "My love, I'll be safely away from anything harmful. The rooms are shielded, the reactor is contained. Why, we've even got lead suits to wear if anything ever did go wrong (not that it will). This nuclear power plant will provide safe, clean energy to Springfield. It will revitalize our little town, put us on the map. The money that comes in will go to improve roads, schools…" he beamed at her. "This is the start of something big, and we're going to be a part of it."

Roberta regarded him with her shy, serious expression, but her eyes were warm. "We," she said, a smile forming in spite of herself.

Smithers nodded. "Yes, we. You, me, and the family we'll have together." He winked at her. "A small family, right? Only six or seven."

She laughed and pushed his hand away. "Are we talking about children or dogs?"

He moved around the table to kiss her, careful to avoid leaning over their food. "Why, children, of course! But we'll just start with one, and see how that goes."

Roberta pretended to move away as he kissed her on the cheek. She giggled as she did. "I like the sounds of that; one to start with."

Smithers gave her a second wink. "Unless it's twins!" he added playfully, tilting his head.

Roberta made a shooing gesture with her hands. "Waylon Joseph, you are an incorrigible rouge!" she teased.

He sat back down in his chair. "Guilty as charged, m'lady; guilty as charged."

* * *

 

**THEN**

"It's been approved!" Burns was practically leaping with delight in Smithers' modest kitchen-turned-office.

Smithers' home was a small apartment, big enough for one person to live and work if he didn't mind doubling up on the function of some rooms. The kitchen was the sole eating area though now it had become an office. There was a living room, bedroom, and bath. It was a tad small for celebration dances, but Smithers didn't mind. He shared the same feeling of elation as the future magistrate for the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant.

While undoubtably pleased to see Burns, he was initially taken back by how unexpected the man's arrival had been. Smithers had been working on some reviews when a frantic pounding came from the front door.

_Keep your shirt on_ , he grumbled at the interruption, expecting yet another salesman. When he opened the door, C. Montgomery Burns exploded into the room, waistcoat billowing like a cape, an official looking document in one hand.

He grabbed Smithers by the lapels and hauled him face-to-face. "It's been approved," he shouted ecstatically, "Oh frabjous day!" He let go and spun in a circle, arms outstretched.

Smithers ducked nonchalantly to avoid being hit across the face.

("How did you even know where I live?" he asked in mild bewilderment.)

"We've got the green light to begin site preparation and initial construction!" Burns said, finally coming to a stop. "Your brilliant plans, and my brilliant billions have been put to work. Come, you, we have to celebrate!"

Burns stopped, and grew serious for a moment. He took account of his surroundings. "Good lord, Smithers, is this where you work?"

"Well, it's my home; so yes," replied Smithers guardedly, not sure where Burns was going with that train of thought.

"This little hovel is an unsuitable study for your genius. I have an entire laboratory back at the manor that I'm hardly using. We should set you up there. Everything you need, right at your fingertips, eh Smithers?" he gave Smithers a playful jab in the arm with an uncomfortable, pointy elbow.

"That may be," Smithers replied, rubbing his arm, "but what if I needed something here?"

Burns scoffed. "What could _you_ possibly _need_ here? And if you did, I could send one of my couriers to procure it for you."

Smithers rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his chin. "I suppose I can't really see an argument against that."

"Outstanding. I'll send a team to box your possessions and have them taken to my personal laboratory."

"Eh, not all my possessions, I hope," asked Smithers somewhat warily.

Burns chuckled. "Oh no, not at all my good man. What? Did you think I was asking you to move in with me! Hah, that would be a jolly good lark, would it not?"

Smithers made a "so-so" gesture with his hand, which Burns appeared to ignore.

"No," Burns continued. "You may happily stay here in your drab little quarters for as long as you desire. I'd hardly tear you away from such a Spartan, if neatly kept, existence."

Smithers chuckled. "Very well, then." He stacked his papers neatly on the table. "Now, as I recall you said something about celebrating?"


	5. Chapter 5

**THEN**

"So glad you could join me for dinner this time," Burns remarked glibly as he drove his Stutz Bearcat along Mammon Lane to his estate. Smithers packed himself in to the seat as tightly as he could. Burns had a sort of racer's flair to his driving technique, cutting corners a wee bit sharper than Smithers felt comfortable with. For all his speed, and sharp handling, they arrived without incident at the front gates of Burns Manor.

As the car approached, the gates swung open automatically.

"Behold the power of electricity," Burns remarked cheerfully.

Smithers had never been to Burn's home before, and found himself taken back by the sheer scale of the place. Crowning the top of the hill, a massive granite and marble edifice dominated the landscape.

The front lawns were immaculately maintained, and a series of terraces with ornamental trees extended down the center. The driveway itself curved round the lawn, connecting the east and west gates in a rising arc designed to impress anyone approaching.

The effect worked.

Smithers found his breath taken back as Burns casually pulled up to the wide flight of marble stairs that lead to the front entrance.

A tall, thin man was standing in the open door, hands clasped behind his back. He didn't move, but his eyes locked on to the two men the moment the Bearcat rolled to a stop. His presence was rather intimidating, Smithers thought. Those white-blue eyes, pale blond hair. While Burns' eyes were a clear blue, they at least held the capacity for warmth. As Smithers walked past the tall steward, he noticed the man's eyes were like looking into winter itself.

The man didn't move, but his eyes locked onto Smithers.

He followed Burns and Smithers inside, closing the door and falling into step behind them.

If the mansion was impressive from the outside, it lost nothing on the inside as well. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls. There were several sculptures posed at well-planned intervals. The floors were a combination of granite, some dark hardwood, and deep purple carpeting. A floating staircase curved up to a second level. Beyond that, Smithers couldn't see.

"Dinner is prepared. We'll be eating in the formal dining hall tonight," Burns explained.

Smithers nodded.

"Then after dinner, perhaps we'll go carousing through the town, or perhaps regale one another with exiting tales shared over a snifter of brandy. I must confess I don't know your passions, so I've taken the liberty of leaving the evening open to best accommodate you."

Smithers was taken back. Burns' congenial words and considerate attitude were at odds with what he had typically come to expect from the man. _When in Rome_ , Smithers thought to himself with an inward shrug, and followed Burns.

* * *

 

**THEN**

The place setting was elaborate, and contained utensils Smithers had never even seen before. The food was amazing, a spread of all many of fish and fowl, meats and vegetables. The drinks were likewise unparalleled. Smithers found the red wine in his glass to be especially to his liking.

"Pardon me, but what's this gold tube for," he asked, picking up what appeared to be a solid gold soda straw.

"For sucking the last little bits of monkey brains out of the skulls," Burns replied casually.

"I see," said Smithers, mildly appalled. He set the monkey brain straw off to the side and wiped his hands on his napkin.

As Smithers ate, he took the time to truly study his boss. With nearly twenty feet of table between them, it didn't seem like staring. Burns was a few years older, perhaps, and a bit taller; handsome in an austere way. Aquiline features, and eyes that held a shrewd genius. He had his head down, focused on the meal before him, eating daintily.

Smithers noticed how Burns held his pinky fingers up when he held something. Periodically, he'd indicate to his steward, the man would come forward, and Burns would request something: a fresh glass of water or wine, a few more peeled peas, a dash of salt.

Burns looked up. "Don't be shy, Smithers. If there's anything you desire, my servants will attend to you. Johan can coordinate whatever you need."

"Thank you," Smithers replied.

Burns cupped a hand to his ear. "What was that?"

"I said 'thank you!'" Smithers yelled back. "Dinner is excellent."

("Excellent," mused Burns quietly, rolling the word around in his mouth. _I like the sound of that word; yes._ )

"You know, Smithers," he called out, "It is a terrible inconvenience to have to raise my voice just so you can hear me down there. Why don't you come here? Sit at my right hand?" There was an inscrutable look to Burns' mien that Smithers couldn't quite read. What is Burns playing at tonight? he wondered.

_Oh, what the hell_ , Smithers thought. He was feeling rather cocky. He drummed his fingers across his lips, his expression almost coquettish. "Why don't you come down here and sit next to me, _Mister_ Burns."

Burns back stiffened immediately. "You cheeky little scoundrel! You are quite the brass monkey, aren't you?"

Smithers held up his hands in mock apology. "I'm not quite sure I catch that metaphor," he admitted, "but I'd be happy to meet you in the middle."

Burns shrugged. "Fair enough."

He lifted his plate from his seat at the end of the table. Smithers gathered his. The steward snapped his fingers and several servants appeared seemingly out of nowhere. With a grunt and a point, he indicated the place settings to be moved.

Smithers and Burns settled across from each other at the center of the table. Chairs were brought behind them, and their place settings restored exactly to the order they'd left them in; complete with Smithers' "monkey brain straw" set a tasteful distance away. Smithers looked up, and caught Burns smiling across the table at him. He tried to smile back, but found himself blushing. He lowered his head, embarrassed. What was he, twelve or something? Cheeks reddening like a shy child? That wasn't him. He rubbed his face, took a deep quaff of wine, and hoped Burns hadn't noticed.

When he looked up, Burns was still watching him mildly, fingertips under his chin.

"I am so glad you could finally join me for dinner, Smithers," Burns began.

"Well, I must thank you for inviting me, Mister Burns-"

Burns gave a slight toss of his head. "Please. 'Mister' Burns was my father."

"'Sir'?"

"No. I don't much like the ring of that when it comes from your mouth."

"'Boss?'" Smithers tried.

Burns made a flicking gesture with his hands. "Heavens no! That sounds even worse from you than 'sir.' Call me 'Monty.' Come on, say it."

"Thank you… Monty," Smithers managed to get out, feeling a warmth start creeping back up his cheeks. He rubbed his neck with his hand and tried to act suave. _God, not again,_ he lamented, mortified. Burns merely watched without a saying a word, that same inscrutable expression still on his face.

* * *

 

**THEN**

_Blushing, seriously? For what cause?_ Burns asked himself as he regarded Smithers carefully, scrutinizing the man like some fascinating specimen. _Not for me, surely,_ Burns ruminated. Banish the thought. Perhaps though, blushing might be preferable to a look of fear. If so, this would be the first face Burns had encountered that wouldn't look better afraid.

Smithers had asked him something. Damn it all, lost in his own lucubration he'd missed it.

"I'm terribly sorry, how rude of me. I was thinking about… eh, our… er, my nuclear plant. What was that again, Smithers?"

Smithers repeated his question.

"Oh, that fellow there? That fine Aryan specimen is my manservant Johan, from Germany. He and I served as part of an elite protective echelon during the war. One can never leave a comrade at arms behind to the mercy of allied forces."

Smithers wrinkled his brow in confusion. "Allies? Comrade at arms? Monty… which side exactly did you fight on?"

Burns puffed out his chest. "Side!? My dear Smithers, it was a _war!_ There are no sides, merely winners and losers. Moving on…" he settled back down, savored several more mouthfuls, then changed topics.

"For the rest of tonight's adventures there is always the choice of going out on the town, some harmless philandering. Certainly a young buck like you must be a real hit with the ladies, eh? Impassioned and savoring the sweet pleasures of youth?"

Smithers face clouded over momentarily. "That's what they say I should be," he remarked, pushing a piece of quail around on his plate before finally eating it.

"And you're not?" Burns probed.

Smithers slid his fingers up and down the stem of his wineglass then shrugged. "I guess I haven't found the right person, the right woman, yet," he replied.

Apparently the wine was getting to the fellow, Burns mused. Person, veritably? "Aren't you engaged to be married anyhow," he retorted.

Smithers snapped his head up and nodded vigorously. "That too, of course," he said hastily. "I mean, one can hardly indulge in womanizing when one has a fiancée. Am I right?" He took another sip of wine. "Yes! I _am_ right."

Burns rubbed his fingertips together thoughtfully. " _Are you_ , indeed?" he muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. In the battle of man versus vine, it appeared poor Smithers was losing to the grapes.

* * *

 

**THEN**

"It's a real nice place you have here, Monty," Smithers remarked casually as their plates were cleared. A desert of berries and fruit was brought out.

"I am a tad partial to the old humble abode myself," Burns replied with false modesty.

Smithers smiled, then raised his empty wine glass, indicating to one of the servants that he'd like a refill.

"No," Burns replied, shaking his head. "I think you ought savor the moment, Smithers."

Smithers set the glass down and gave Burns miffed expression. His glass was promptly whisked up by a servant, and a full goblet of water placed in its stead. Smithers narrowed his eyes. He felt warm and uncharacteristically relaxed. The water looked terribly cold, with its ice cubes. Red wine would've been better.

He surrendered, and took a sip of the water, then popped a berry into his mouth. The taste was exquisite, somewhere between a fresh raspberry and melon.

"Ooh," he said after he finished. "What was that?"

Burns speared a piece of some tropical looking fruit piece. "That? Just a little hybrid I came up with between _Rubus strigosus_ and _Cucumis melo._ "

"What are those?"

"A raspberry and a melon."

Smithers chuckled and ate another piece. "You like to be in control, don't you, Monty," he remarked incisively.

Burns said nothing, but raised an eyebrow.

Smithers continued. "That's not a bad thing, of course. I like to be in control too." Even as he spoke, Smithers felt himself sliding into dangerous territory. He tried never to talk about himself. His accomplishments, yes. His goals and ambitions were a safe topic as well. But he, Waylon Joseph Smithers, was a topic he preferred to keep off the table.

Burns paused his eating, and tented his fingers. "I take it you rarely partake in the fruits of the vine."

Smithers shook his head. "Could you please come again?"

Burns snorted. "Wine. You don't imbibe often, I think."

Smithers raised his palms. "You're right on that. Rarely if at all." He paused, had a few more berries, then shrugged. "I'm a bit of a perfectionist. I've seen how alcohol can lower one's inhibitions. I don't want that happening to me." His head swam as he tried to think of what he wanted to say… and what he didn't.

"You fear you have too much to lose if you let go of the reins for a bit, eh? That everything has to follow a specific course of action. Almost preordained machinations? That you must do certain things, in a precise order, or it will all come crumbling down; you'll be left impecunious and forsaken?"

Smithers popped the last piece of fruit in his mouth. Dear God, what was Burns actually getting at? Was he simply rambling to hear himself talk, or was the man making a less than subtle accusation of something? It seemed suddenly as if the air in the room had gotten stale. He sipped his water and tried to look anywhere but at Burns.


	6. Chapter 6

**THEN**

Burns smirked. He'd made the man squirm. Usually this would be a victory, Burns reasoned. This should make him feel good. To his surprise it didn't. If anything, he felt… regret? Pity? Some unpleasant thing he rarely felt. He'd put quite a spotlight on Smithers.

What are you doing, Monty, that nagging voice scolded. He's your guest, and you're toying with him. Shame on you.

_Shame on me, indeed…_ , Burns found himself thinking.

He rose, took the long walk around the table, to stand beside Smithers.

"Come now, it's all in good fun," he said, extending a hand. "Two young men having an amiable chat after dinner."

Smithers took Burns' hand. Burns tugged Smithers to his feet. "I think though," Burns added, as he let go of Smithers' hand, "that you shouldn't be afraid to act on impulse, at least once in a while. Why, look at me," he declared with a flourish. "You put a teensy idea of a nuclear power plant in my head last winter, and now here we are, with approval to start clearing the site! Do you think that was my plan?" He put an arm around Smithers' shoulder, and started leading him from the dining room.

"My good man, that wasn't a plan at all! That was pure whimsy! I liked that idea, so I capitalized on it! And now look at us: proud plank-owners pioneering a new era for Springfield!"

Burns guided Smithers into the great hall.

"And," he purred, "I think you have a greater capacity for impetuousness than you're willing to give yourself credit for."

In front of a massive stone fireplace in one of the many sitting rooms, they paused.

"Why do you say that," Smithers asked, bemused.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, Monty, it's not."

Burns gestured to the manorscape around them. "Why, my dear Waylon, you quit your job for me!"

* * *

 

**THEN**

Smithers didn't bother to shrug Burns' arm from his shoulders, though he was not one who sought to be touched, especially not by another man.

He knew his reluctance for physical contact was a bit of a flaw. Even Roberta made comments from time to time that he wasn't physically affectionate. _I want to save that for marriage_ , Smithers deferred. Roberta would then tease him about being old-fashioned. He'd laugh and agree; but still remain firm in his decision.

"Sit," Burns instructed, gesturing to a high-backed wing chair.

Detaching himself from Burns' informal embrace he took a seat in the chair, and propped his feet on a convenient ottoman. Smithers' mind was a swirl of thoughts and emotions. When he tried to latch on to a single one, everything seemed dizzy. When he relaxed, and let things wash over him, it all seemed much easier. Such were the effects of alcohol.

He languidly regarded Burns. The man had a certain appeal to him, Smithers though. He could definitely come to enjoy their time together. He liked watching the way Burns moved, deliberate, but with an easy fluidity. He wondered vaguely if Burns would be a good dancer.

Smithers was fairly certain he was nowhere near the proverbial "drunk," and rationalized his current mood would be best described as "euphoria." It was a light, warm, almost giddy feeling; but not anything that would risk him losing control. The water he'd had with desert seemed to lessen the effect. He felt fully in command of himself.

Burns was up and doing something in the back of the room behind him. He heard the man muttering instructions to Johan(?) most likely, but he couldn't make out the words.

A door opened and shut. Then opened and shut again.

Burns reappeared into his field of vision, wearing a long pea coat, tan scarf, and black beret. "I was thinking," he began, "that perhaps we might take a night stroll around the grounds. Unless I miss my guess, staying in suits you better than hitting the town. If you're going to be working here, you might as well get familiar with the lay of the land."

Smithers turned his head thoughtfully. "I didn't bring a coat."

"Don't worry, I'm sure I have one you can borrow. I have a dashing foxhound-leather duster that I daresay would be just your size."

Smithers cast his gaze askance. _Foxhound-leather?_ "Is it made out of real dogs?" he asked warily. He still wasn't sure the monkey brain straw hadn't been a joke. It was very hard to tell with Burns.

Burns shrugged. "Would that be a problem for you?"

Smithers nodded.

Burns looked awkward for a moment, caught off guard.

_That's a first_ , Smithers thought, watching calmly.

"Eh, calfskin. Let's say it is some fine novillo leather. Would that suit you better?"

"Yes," Smithers said with a mellow exhalation. "Much better."

"Novillo it is then!" Burns ducked out of sight again. Smithers found it easier not to turn his head and follow the man. He'd be back, Smithers reasoned. He was on a mission of some sort.

Burns capered back into view, holding out a long, beige duster. "Here," he said proudly, holding it out. "Try it on!"

Smithers rose carefully, and slipped his arms into the sleeves. It fit perfectly! _So smooth_ , Smithers thought, running his hands along the material. He turned one way, then the other, admiring the cut. "It's like it was made for me!" he remarked in surprise.

Burns shrugged. "Fancy that. I am glad you like it. Here," he handed Smithers a small box.

"What's in here?" Smithers asked, curious.

"An accessory," Burns replied tersely, without further explanation.

Smithers ran a hand through his thinning hair. Once again, Burns' mood had switched. Moments ago, he'd been positively chatty. Now he was taciturn and aloof, stoic and unreadable. _It'll make you mad to try and figure him out_ , Waylon, he advised himself. Like his father always said: play the game, boy. Just play the game.

He opened the small cardboard box. Inside was a grey scarf, made of the softest wool he'd ever felt. He took it out, and wrapped it about his neck. The soot grey matched perfectly with the light tone of his duster. He took a fringed end and stroked it over his cheek. "So soft…"

"Angora wool, from the finest rabbits."

"For me?"

"Do you see anyone else in this room?"

Smithers gave Burns a sly smile. "Now who's being 'cheeky'?" he quipped.

"Touché." Burns gave a slight bow. "Join me for a walk, Smithers. Fresh air will clear your head. I do enjoy a nightly constitutional around the grounds. We'll see if that new coat and scarf keep 'way the nighttide chill."


	7. Chapter 7

**THEN**

Burns and Smithers strolled under the moonlight, taking a route Burns had followed last month for his fox hunt. Occasionally Burns pointed out some architectural feature on his manor, or drew attention to other buildings that made up his estate.

"The stables, and, across from them the kennels."

Smithers regarded the buildings. "Did the guard dogs ever arrive?"

Burns nodded. "About two weeks ago."

"Do they bite?" he asked with a playful grin.

Burns grinned. "The bitey-est! I've already named one of them Crippler. Oh, he'll be quite the man-stopper, that one! You should see the bloodlust in his eyes!"

Though it was no longer early spring, the damp air had an unpleasant chill to it. Smithers rubbed his hands together, cupped them, then breathed into them to warm them. "You know, Monty," he said as they walked, "sometimes you make me nervous."

"Oh?"

"The things you say, the way you say it, can have an unsettling effect on people."

Burns took off his leather gloves. "So I've been told."

"You know they say you've done some pretty horrible things to people."

"Do they now," remarked Burns indifferently, bundling his gloves into one hand.

"Well, there was that time you failed your entire class on a whim-"

"No whim. Their constant back-chatter and note-passing irritated me."

Smithers gazed across the silver landscape, feeling the wind blow slightly. It was coming in from the north, almost wintery despite the month. Though his body still felt warm from the wine, and his duster blocked most the draft, he shivered. Smithers briskly tucked his hands in his pockets. The smooth, cool leather pockets were no warmer than the air. "They say you've done worse than fail students."

Burns moved closer. " _They_ do like to talk, don't they," he remarked, looking towards the distant hills. He handed his gloves over to Smithers.

Before he fully realized it, Smithers had taken Burns' gloves, and slipped them over his hands. They were a tight fit, scaled to Burns delicate features, but they were lined… and warm from Burns' hands.

"Oh, make no mistake about it, Smithers, I am not a good man; to some I am simply 'misfortune.' To others, I'm sure I am their 'devil.' I can live with that. Fear and respect are so closely intertwined. If I am not given one, I'll gladly ensure I get the other."

This didn't seem like a remark that warranted a response. So they walked, each lost in thought. It wasn't long before they reached the ends of the manicured lawns. The area behind, while still maintained, had a wilder feel to it. A great forest yawned before them, the grass was left longer like a meadow. To the east a bright expanse shown as if glowing in the moonlight.

Smithers wiped his glasses, and squinted towards the field. "Jonquils?" he asked in surprise. He started off to inspect the sight.

"Eh?" started Burns, surprised, but he moved to follow.

"It is! I didn't know you had jonquils. I love jonquils!"

Burns tried to appear nonchalant. "Oh, the daffodils. They, eh… they were planted last fall."

Smithers was picking up his pace. "You know, my mother used to have these growing in her garden. Every spring they'd pop up, and bloom for weeks it seemed. We used to pick great bouquets of them, my mother and I, and bring them inside. Even my brothers would get in on it. It was one of those things, silly really, but it still brings me back." He stopped at the edge of the daffodil field, crouched down, took a deep sniff, and exhaled slowly. "Mmmm, I missed that smell."

* * *

 

**THEN**

Burns chewed a thumbnail thoughtfully, watching Smithers. To think a bunch of insignificant yellow flowers under the moon could excite him so? Perhaps it was the wine still loosening up his brain.

Or, perhaps, he thought as he worried his nail, he's simply not afraid to let me see him happy.

That was a strange concept for Burns. Showing simple joy. Other emotions he had no problem displaying, especially the delight at a victory or the thrill of crushing an adversary. This was different. There was no boastfulness to it. No chest-pounding or demands for attention.

_Well then, Monty,_ he admonished himself, _you've not been particularly boastful this evening either. Giving him your gloves? Seriously, what are you thinking!_ He shook his head, arguing with himself. _Bunkum and balderdash! I did it without thinking!_ It just seemed like the right thing. Like Smithers and his daffodils there, just something natural to do.

Burns growled softly in his throat.

Natural. Since when was _giving_ natural? Or having a coat made specifically for another? And why on earth was he enjoying watching Smithers' happiness? Burns narrowed his eyes down to slits, and drew a small pen knife from within his coat.

* * *

 

**THEN**

Smithers, still feeling slightly light-headed from earlier found himself enraptured by the ethereal sight before him: the daffodils bobbing and swaying in the breeze, beneath the pale moonlight. It was like some sort of scene out of fairytale.

He cupped one of the blooms in his gloved hands, caressing the petals gently. The pollen fell on his fingertips, like gold dust.

A shadow moved over him, eclipsing the light.

He looked up, startled, to see the dark form of C. Montgomery Burns threatening above him. There was a sharp flash in the moonlight, the blade of a knife in Burns' hand.

Smithers uttered a small shriek and started to fall sideways out of the way.

* * *

 

**THEN**

Burns hastily reached out and grabbed Smithers' arm with his free hand, stabilizing the man's tumble. "Good lord, Smithers, what in blazes is that about?" he demanded, befuddled. He slapped the knife, hilt first, into Smithers' palm.

"Go find yourself the most perfect blooms," he ordered, "pick them, and we'll put them in a vase at the manor."

Smithers was still staring at him, mouth gaping like a fish.

"Well, get on with it, Waylon… Smithers. We haven't got all night-" Smithers rose to his feet.

"-But take your time," Burns finished. Then he added as an afterthought: "And enjoy it."

* * *

 

**THEN**

The two men walked back across the lawns to the manor. Smithers carried a full bouquet of daffodils. "Did I truly frighten you that badly?" Burns asked, perplexed.

"Well, it gave me quite a start to see you standing over me with a knife; so, yes," he admitted.

Burns made a face. "You wouldn't want to pick them with your oafish hands. Why, you'd crush those delicate stems! They'd scarcely last a day once you got them home if you gathered them like that."

Smithers chuckled. "I suppose you're right."

"We'll have Johan put those in a vase for you, then some cognac by the fire to settle your nerves. I can't have jittery as a hog on ice. I need you cool, calm, collected. Like me."

A bit of Smithers' typical sass had reappeared. "Calm… like _you_ , Monty?"

Burns gave a laugh. "Perhaps it doesn't seem calm to you, Smithers. But at least I know who I am and what I want. Then I merely act accordingly." He tilted his head and looked sidelong into Smithers' face. "We are all slaves to our natures, my good man. We all have demons. I simply don't see any need to keep mine hidden away. I claim to be, at the marrow of my bones, a cold-hearted business man. It's done me well so far."

They made their way indoors, where Johan was waiting. Without speaking, he took their coats, Burns' beret, and Smithers' daffodils in one sweeping motion.

Smithers followed Burns to the same sitting room they'd been in earlier. A roaring fire had been lit, and the chairs pulled closer to the hearth. Burns lifted a glass flask down from a shelf, blew the dust from two glasses, turned the upright, and poured a tiny bit of caramel-colored liquid into each one.

"I opened this shortly before you arrived," Burns explained as he handed Smithers the glass. Cognac Vieux, eighteen-eleven. Ah, bottled even before my time, though I've been told it was an amazing year for the harvest. Long, hot summer and a warm, dry autumn."

He sat across from Smithers, swirled the brandy to let it air, then took a sip.

Smithers emulated his host, took a tentative sniff, and a small sip. The liquid was felt warm and smooth in his mouth, with a distinctive, almost fruitlike taste. There was a sweetness, but something else he couldn't pin down. He'd never had cognac before, but decided he immediately liked it. "I'm not sure how to describe it."

Burns smiled. "The term _rancio_ is used, but it's as difficult to define as the taste."

Smithers took another small sip, feeling the euphoric feeling return as the liquid entered his blood. "They say," he began slowly, looking through the glass at the fire, "that the more you try to describe something, the more you take away from it."

"Oh?" asked Burns.

"That descriptions and labels always fall short for truly capturing the essence of something. That once you start trying to pin a concept down in words, you'll lose the true nature of what it actually is." He leaned forward, chin resting in one hand, glass held out in front of him.

Burns eyed him up and down. "Are you a nuclear engineer or a philosopher?"

Smithers rolled his head towards Burns, feeling the world roll slightly with him. "Tonight? Tonight, Monty, I think I'm a little of both." He drained his glass, and held it out for a refill.


	8. Chapter 8

**THEN**

Smithers woke up, feeling disorientated and with a slight throbbing behind his eyes. Not a full hangover, he'd experienced those once or twice in his life, but like a little mini-hangover. He went to roll out of bed… and kept rolling.

The bed was much bigger than he remembered.

Smithers opened his eyes, and for a brief moment his mind reeled, trying to make sense of the world. In the dim light, his brain tried to turn the shadows into shapes from his apartment, and failing that, sent out a wave of panic.

Waylon Smithers rocketed awake, reaching for his glasses that were usually on the night-stand next to his bed. After a few moments of frantic scrabbling, he found them.

The world instantly snapped into focus.

He was alone in a Victorian style bedroom, on the edge of a king-sized canopy bed. Heavy velvet curtains had been drawn over the windows.

Burns Manor. He was at Burns Manor. The last thing he clearly remembered was sitting by a fire with his boss, discussing, what was it, philosophy or something? He couldn't quite recall what happened after that. The entire night, from dinner onward had a sort of shimmery quality to it when he tried to identify the details.

He got up, and pulled back the drapes.

The morning light brightened the room. It must've been about eight o'clock, he reasoned. This bedroom faced north, overlooking the veranda, lawns and gardens behind the manor. Now illuminated, he was able to make out the details of the room.

The furniture was overly ornate, and a chaise lounger was set near a shelf full of leather-bound books by the fireplace. A wash basin and pitcher rested on a small stand by a mirror. There were three doors in the room, one of which was left ajar into what appeared to be an attached bathroom. The other was a narrow, closet door.

Shimmery details or not, last night must've been real. On the mantle was a vase of freshly cut daffodils.

He padded over to the washstand, glad to see he was at least wearing his normal clothes, and poured some water into the basin. He washed and dried his face, and hung the towel on a rack nearby.

There was no comb or brush, so he smoothed his hair as best he could. By the door was a coat rack. His duster was hung on one peg, along with his regular suit-coat. A white lab-coat hung on a third peg.

Smithers lifted it down and examined it.

Rather than the typical linens of most laboratory coats, the one held in his hands was made of snow-white leather. His name, _Waylon J. Smithers_ , was stitched in red across the left breast. It appeared to be a similar material as the duster.

Feeling a bit like a trespasser, or Alice in wonderland, Smithers opened the door, and peered into the hall.

At first he didn't see anyone, but he heard a slight rustling of cloth. He started as Johan detached himself from the shadows beside a sculpture.

"Herr Smithers, _guten morgen_ ," he said in muted tones, with his soft accent. Johan bowed slightly at the waist. "Herr Burns has taken his leave at the moment. I am to show you to breakfast, then to your laboratory. Please, allow me," he said, stepping past Smithers and gathering the lab coat over one arm.

Smithers fell into step behind the tall, thin man. Everything still seemed surreal, like a dream.

He ate a breakfast of coddled eggs, toast and fruit, feeling oddly self-conscious under Johan's unwavering stare. After he finished, Johan escorted him through corridors, and down a flight of stairs to a massive space.

It was a fully equipped laboratory, the sort that would make any scientist, private or government, green with envy. "This is your verkspace," Johan indicated. "Your current projects have been laid out for you by the drafting tables. Lunchtime is at noon sharp. I trust you can find your way. Herr Burns will be joining you then."

Smithers nodded mutely. He sat down at the table, found his favorite architect's pen had already been laid out for him, and got to work.

* * *

 

**THEN**

"I stopped by your house last night, to see if you wanted to go see a show, but you weren't there," Roberta said, trying (and failing) to keep the accusatory tone from her voice.

"I know," Smithers said, as they walked hand in hand along the shores of Lake Springfield. "Mister Burns set me up with a private workspace in his lab. I was working late, and didn't get back at anything even resembling a reasonable hour."

She squeezed his hand. "I was worried about you. You should've called."

Smithers hung his head. "You're right. I should have. The time got away from me. I'm sorry." It was as close to the truth as he felt like going. How would the real explaination sound to her ears: _Sorry, I forgot to say anything to you. I was busy drinking with my boss, then we took a moonlit walk and I picked some flowers. Afterwards, we drank a bit more and I don't remember exactly what happened next._ He choked inwardly. That didn't sound the least bit suspicious, he thought, tersely. He had to stay focused; a lifetime of control.

"Your own lab? That is exciting! Do you think I could see it?" Roberta asked, brightening up. "It is… safe… isn't it?"

"Absolutely! There _is_ nothing to be worried about there. I won't be doing any experiments with radioactive isotopes. At this point, most all of my work is pen and paper."

"What exactly do you do?"

He beamed, delighted to be talking about his work. "Well, mainly I'm drafting the plans and operational concepts for the plant. While there are government guidelines in place to keep everyone safe, a lot of the layout and design falls on the project manager. Mister Burns has some history in the nuclear field, but his knowledge is a bit dated compared to mine. My job right now is a combination of research and development, coordinating proposal submissions, and handling the backbone design of the facility."

"That's it?" Roberta joked.

"Well," Smithers replied, "I suppose I could offer to walk his dogs for him, but I think I won't volunteer."

"The dogs aren't too nice?"

"Not particularly. Mister Burns has been talking about keeping some on the grounds for estate guards. Originally they were all going to be used as security at the plant, but I think he's getting fond of at least a few of them." Smithers ran a hand over his moustache thoughtfully. "I'm sure it won't be a bother to give you a tour sometime, but I'll still have to ask him first. It's not as if it's just my office. It's also his home."

Roberta nodded. "I completely understand, Waylon." She leaned in and rubbed her nose against his. "Eskimo kiss," she giggled.

Smithers chuckled and nuzzled her back. "Icey smoochies." Ah, Roberta. He did love the woman. She made him smile, and he cherished the idea of having a family with her. They'd be great parents together, a houseful of little feet pattering around, her musical laughter and the happy squeals of their children.

Smithers saw his dreamed future so clearly in his mind's eye: he'd come home from work, hang his hat on the rack, and scoop up whoever was nearest in a great big hug. While he was working, Roberta would be tending to the house. At seven o'clock, they'd all sit down together for a nice family meal. Afterwards, he'd clean up the kitchen with the children while Roberta relaxed. In the evening, if it was nice, they'd play in the backyard. If it was rainy or cold, they'd play board games, or maybe listen to the radio and work on crafts. Some year, when the children were old enough, he'd get the family a dog. Or maybe a cat. Roberta was always saying how much she liked cats, and he wanted to be able to provide whatever her heart desired.

Yes, that what Waylon Smithers openly admitted he desired in life.


	9. Chapter 9

**NOW**

"Remember the first time you brought Roberta to the manor," Monty reminisced as the two men sat at their desks.

"Oh, how could I forget? Then, after dinner," chuckled Waylon, "she so wanted to see the hounds…"

"So I told you to bring Isadore…"

"But they all look alike, so I grabbed Crippler…"

"And before I could scream 'no, Smithers, you dolt!' you'd brought him right up to her…"

"Then all he did was lick her face."

They laughed at the memory, but Waylon's laugh soon turned melancholy. He sighed and stretched his feet out, bumping Burns' legs. Burns didn't mind. "Ah," he said sadly. "What happened, Monty? Everything seemed so simple two years ago."

Monty twirled a strand of his silver hair around a finger. He'd been letting it grow out a bit, trying to compensate for the gradual thinning. At least he wasn't bald like Waylon. Monty had to admit, Waylon pulled it off. He looked sharp, professional. He didn't need thick locks to look dashing.

Waylon was still as dapper a chap as he was when they'd first met, when Monty had been a young professor, and Waylon the intrepid graduate student. Ah, Monty mused, if he'd known then what he knew now, perhaps he would've done a few things differently. _Or perhaps I would've done everything exactly the same_. He drummed his fingers on the desk, carried a few figures, did some brief additions, and glanced up at Waylon. For a moment he paused. He set down his pen, rested his chin in his hand, and sentimentally regarded his partner.

Indeed, Monty mused, feeling a wave of nostalgia. He decided if he had the choice to redo their friendship, he still would do everything exactly the same.

* * *

 

**NOW**

"My sister-in-law and her husband have been helping Roberta with the baby," Waylon remarked quietly.

"Oh?"

Waylon nodded. "Charlotte and Alex. They have a son about two years older than Waylon, so they've been coming over to the house while I'm at work, to make sure everything's going alright. Charlotte's been driving Roberta to her doctors' appointments."

Monty listened. He wanted to ask, but didn't dare. Waylon could be so clandestine about certain personal matters. He'd talk about it if he was ready to.

"The treatment," Waylon paused, "hasn't been going as well as they hoped. The doctors want to keep her at the hospital. Charlotte offered to watch Waylon during the day, but she's pretty far along with the second baby. At some point, she won't be able to."

Burns steepled his fingers.

"You're asking if you could bring that infant here?"

Waylon nodded sadly. "Not every day, I mean, but it's quite likely that's what I'll have to do."

Burns put on his most unreadable expression. He tapped the tips of his interlaced fingers against his mouth pensively. He furrowed his brow. "If this were anyone else asking," he began, jabbing a finger towards Waylon's chest, "there would not be a moment of hesitation. The answer would be a flat-out 'no!' But this is you we're talking about."

Waylon's face was the picture of hope.

"For you," Monty intoned gravely, "I will allow it." Waylon started to reply, but Monty cut him off with a wave of his hand. "But please understand, the care and tending of your progeny will fall solely on your shoulders! I want nothing to do with child-rearing, and I'll not have him getting in my way."

Waylon leapt up, grabbing both of Monty's hands in his. "Thank you! _Thank you!_ " he exclaimed, squeezing Monty's hands warmly.

Monty rose to his feet, linking his fingers around Waylon's. He tried his best to keep any hint of a smile from forming, but his tone betrayed him. How wonderful it was to finally see some joy in his partner's eyes. "Don't get all soft on me, man! For god's sake, show a little dignity!"

Waylon couldn't reply, simply laughed happily, tilting his head back.

Monty's face, despite all his intention, split into an open grin. "Oh, fiddlesticks, Waylon. You make too much out of this!" He swung Waylon's hands back and forth. "You'll embarrass us both."

Still laughing, Waylon loosened his grasp. A few seconds, Monty did as well, though not without giving Waylon's hands a parting squeeze.

"I'm sorry, _sir_ ," Waylon teased. "I'll never suffer you such an, eh, an _effusive outpouring of sentiment_ again."

Burns smirked at him. "Cheeky scoundrel."

Waylon winked back. "Absolutely!"

* * *

 

**THEN**

Waylon Smithers picked up Roberta at her parents' house after he left Burns Manor. Sometimes they drove up to the western hills, or north to Lake Springfield. Roberta simply enjoyed his company.

Roberta wore a red hairband, to keep her auburn hair from blowing in her face. She rarely wore red, but it was her favorite color. Her mother told her red was to be used sparingly, that it could overpower, and sent the wrong message.

Roberta thought sometimes her mother was a bit old-fashioned. The first time Roberta had worn make-up her mother had huffed about "war-paint" and how she was not going to have any "painted ladies" in her house. Fortunately, her mother had relaxed in time, especially after she and Waylon were formally engaged. Her parents approved of Waylon. Even her father thought Waylon was a good choice for her. He generally never approved of any man.

Roberta had the window down, and let her hand hang out, playing with the air. The weather had finally started to warm up, and she was savoring the moment. Both moments, actually. The mild day, and her time in Waylon's company.

"I feel like we don't get much time together lately," she admitted.

Smithers piloted the car across the river, and turned north. "Roberta, I want to show you something." Between Inspiration Point and the bridge he stopped the car along the roadside.

He climbed out, then crossed over to get Roberta's door, and extended a hand to her. "M'lady," he bowed slightly.

She laughed, and gave him a playful swat on the arm. "I can get out a car by myself, Waylon."

He shrugged, but remained with his hand out. Shaking her head, Roberta took it, and he guided her up. Smithers shut the door behind her. "Look down there," he pointed to a spot where the river bent. "Do you see where those trees have been cut?"

Several acres of previously forested land had been cleared below them. Where the ground leveled out, the first stages of development had already started. The trees had been cleared to make way for construction equipment. Though stumps remained, the trunks had been delimbed, and were stacked in neat piles.

"That," Smithers said proudly, "is going to be the site of the nuclear generating station, right there!"

He pointed towards the river side of the clearing. "The reactors and cooling towers will be on that side. The water's drawn directly from the river. We'll have inflow pipes there," he pointed upstream, "and exiting pipes there," he gestured downstream near the bridge. "The containment structures, where the reactor vessels and generators are going to be there," he gestured towards another spot on the clearing.

Proudly, Smithers went on, describing the soon-to-be nuclear plant. As he explained what would be where, Roberta could almost see it herself. It was like getting a glimpse through her fiancé's eyes. She saw the cooling towers, the office complex, a parking lot full of cars. He described how the road was going to be widened and cut to facilitate the new traffic flow.

Roberta loved it when Smithers got like that: when a fire was ignited in his brain: that gleam of barely restrained anticipation. Her Waylon was generally calm, and a tad sassy. In those rare moments, like the one he was in now, she could see a depth of intensity that he usually kept bottled away. Beneath his jocular exterior beat the heart of a passionate genius.

Sometimes Roberta wished he could be like that more often. Especially with her.

It wasn't that Waylon was indifferent. Quite the contrary, he was very attentive, at times overly conscientious. He was just… reserved; especially in his affections. He wasn't afraid to hold hands, or give her a kiss. Such casual contact he welcomed freely. If she tried to draw out anything more, he'd gently remove her hands, and tell her he was saving himself for their wedding night.

_You're a prude, like my parents_ , she'd huff in a mock-pout.

He'd give her that trademark smirk, and remark that he was merely old-fashioned; nothing more.

* * *

 

**THEN**

"Wait here a minute," Smithers said, having finished describing the future nuclear plant.

"Where are you going," Roberta asked, turning to face him.

"Just to the car," he replied quickly. "Don't look!"

Roberta made a shooing gesture and smiled. "Fine, fine." She turned her back to him, and looked out over the river. She heard him open the trunk, there was some rustling noises. The trunk slammed shut.

Behind her were more sounds: a _floof_ of a blanket or rug being shaken out, the clink of some dishes. She resisted the urge to peek. "Okay," he said. "You can look now!"

Roberta turned. Her Waylon had set up a small picnic dinner, complete with the red-and-white checkered blanket. There were dainty sandwiches, a little plate of fruit and cheese, with some berries she'd never seen before. In the center was a single daffodil in a slender glass vase.

Smithers patted the ground next to him. She came and sat down on a pillow he'd set out. "What a surprise!" she exclaimed, looking at the variety of delicate treats before her. She picked up a sandwich and nibbled a corner. It was delicious.

"They're called 'tea sandwiches,'" Smithers explained.

She ate one of the berries. "Mmmm, what is this?"

Smithers smiled. "They're a cross between a melon and a raspberry."

"How'd that happen?"

"I have no idea. It's something Mister Burns created."

She tilted her head. "Created?"

He nodded. "It's a hybrid. I'm not really sure how he did it. Tasty though, aren't they?" He popped one in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

They continued the meal, making small talk between bites, and enjoying the view. After they'd finished, Smithers started packing up. He handed her the vase and flower. "This is for you. The most perfect bloom in the field for the most beautiful woman in Springfield." He winked.

"I didn't know there were any around her," Roberta remarked, giving the daffodil a delicate sniff.

"There's an entire field full of them back at the manor. Most are past prime now, but there are still a few new blooms."

Roberta walked to the car with him, thinking quietly to herself. "Did those sandwiches come from there too?"

Smithers paused as he loaded the picnic basket into the trunk. "From the field?"

"No, silly. You know what I meant."

"Oh! From the manor?" He shut the trunk. "Yes, they came from there. Mister Burns had his chef prepare them for me this afternoon." He held open Roberta's door, and offered her a hand as she climbed in.

Roberta felt an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. She wasn't sure exactly what it was. Nausea would be far too strong a word. It felt like a snake was coiling inside her. She didn't like the sensation one bit.

"Everything here came from the manor?"

Roberta saw Smithers hesitate before answering. He turned the engine on, and maneuvered deftly though the gears as they started down the hill. "…Yes…" he replied cautiously.

"I see."

Smithers glanced over at her. "Mister Burns lets me have access to anything I want there. I've got free range of the manor and grounds, I have permission to make requests of his servants. He lets me make use his amenities as I like." His voice had taken on a slightly defensive tone.

"He lets you pick the flowers in his gardens."

Smithers was looking straight ahead. "Yes," he replied tersely. "He lets me pick flowers if I so chose to."

"And in exchange you just have to spend all your waking hours at the manor, working for him." Roberta held the vase close to her chest. "You know, this story sounds something like the tale _Beauty and the Beast._ Do you know that one?"

Smithers sighed. "Yes, Roberta. I know that story. We all know that story-"

"Where the beast offered Beauty everything her heart desired, but she was still his prisoner-"

Smithers interrupted her. "But he turned out to be a handsome prince, and they all lived happily ever after. The end."

Roberta couldn't read his expression, but she could hear the irritation in his tone. She looked away.

Smithers downshifted, and crossed the bridge. "I don't understand what you're bothered by, Roberta. Mister Burns is my boss. He wants me to be happy. You are my fiancée and he understands that. You didn't object to joining us for dinner either."

_'Us!' Damn! Idiot!_ Smithers clenched the wheel tightly, and hoped Roberta didn't notice.

"I had a wonderful time," she admitted. "Everything was beautiful. I just… I don't know Waylon… I don't know what I'm trying to say."

Smithers took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. They were getting close to Roberta's house, and he didn't want the evening to end like this. He slowed down, and pulled onto a side street. Smithers pulled over to the side of the road, and put the car in park. He leaned back, and looked Roberta straight in the eye.

"My dearest Roberta," he began slowly, choosing his words carefully, "The things I do for Mister Burns, this is my job. It may not be as conventional as teaching at the university, but once the plant's built and I have an office there, it will seem like a typical job. It's different now because I work at the manor. Yes, I see him every day. But it's no different than my fellow faculty at the university! I saw them every day too."

Roberta held her daffodil vase to her chest, took slow breath to calm herself, and looked out the window. "It feels different, Waylon," she said.

He put a hand on her shoulder. "It only feels different to you because I work out of his home." He thought of what else he could say. "Lots of people work there though. It's not like I'm alone with him. There are the groundskeepers, the housekeepers…"

"That particularly creepy houseman he keeps," Roberta added.

Smithers couldn't help but smile. "You think Johan's creepy too? Whew, that's a relief. I was worried it was just me."

The tension from the previous moment broke, and Roberta chuckled. "Are you kidding? The look in his eyes, I bet he could freeze water just by glaring at it!"

Smithers found himself snickering. "Maybe that's why it's been so cold lately! Mister Burns let him look out the window!"

Roberta was fairly laughing now. "Oh, they really should keep him inside!"

"I agree. But let him out once a year; right before Christmas so we have plenty of snow!"

Roberta reached a hand out and cupped Smithers' cheek. "Oh, Waylon," she whispered, looking into his eyes, "I can't promise I won't get mad at you-"

Smithers put a finger to her lips, cutting her off. "Shhh. Don't say it. People get mad at other sometimes, but that doesn't mean they don't love each other. Everyone gets mad sometimes." He lifted her hand from his cheek and kissed her palm. Wordlessly, he put the car back in gear, and they rode in silence back to her house.

Outside his car, he walked her to the front door. Smithers paused on the steps.

He leaned towards her, careful not to spill the vase, or crush her daffodil. She met him, and they kissed in the way he did: a peck on each cheek, and a quick kiss on the lips. He held her hand a second longer, looking into her face as he bid her goodnight. _Why does life always have to be so damn complicated?_ he thought, watching himself reflected in her dark, soulful eyes.

He turned and walked back to his car, and followed the familiar route to his apartment. He parked his car on the street, walked up the flight of stairs, and let himself in. He spent so much time at the manor lately, it seemed like he only came home to sleep.

Smithers went through his nightly, pre-bedtime routine, put on his pajamas, and climbed into bed. He set his glasses on the nightstand, and turned out the light. The last thing he remembered before he drifted off the sleep, was the final lines of every fairytale:

_And they both lived happily ever after. The End._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When In Rome](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376877) by [Ciaphus Rex (ChequeRoot)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChequeRoot/pseuds/Ciaphus%20Rex)




End file.
